


Land of

by Bright_Elen, misskatieleigh



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Monsters, POV Bodhi Rook, POV Cassian Andor, Psychological Trauma, Temporary Character Death, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bright_Elen/pseuds/Bright_Elen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/misskatieleigh/pseuds/misskatieleigh
Summary: An Abhorsen trained only by book and the guidance of his uncanny best friend, Cassian Andor is doing his best. Unfortunately for everyone, his best is becoming less and less effective. If he wants to keep the balance of Life and Death, he needs help, and soon.Because the Dead are restless, no matter how many of them Cassian banishes, and he knows an evil bigger than anything he's ever faced lies at the heart of it all.Bodhi Rook doesn't see how he, a Perimeter Guard with only the most basic magic, could be of any help against powerful necromancy, but he was the one the Clayr Saw, and the one the Abhorsen risked death and madness to save, so at the very least he owes it to them to try.Even if it kills him.Again.





	1. Abhorsen

**Author's Note:**

> Hello gentle readers! This is an expansion of the ficlet of the same title. We may or may not finish this version, but you can expect a minimum of four chapters.
> 
> Enjoy!

Twilight falls in Roble’s Town, the last rays of sunset staining the roof of the inn a deep red. Cassian Andor mounts his horse and nods to the stable master, who bows before setting his hand on the door, beginning to shut it even before Cassian has left the building.

Once outside, he waits until the stable door is shut. Then he rests his gloved fingertips on the smooth wood, letting Charter marks of warding flow through him. It’s the last of several protection spells he’s cast this evening. The townsfolk are indoors now, safe, for the time being, behind the spelled doors of inn and stable and barn, only a few stubborn citizens preferring to hunker down in their own homes. Cassian hadn’t wanted to let them do that, but as they’d been able to cast their own (somewhat rudimentary) protection spells, he hadn’t had time to argue.

“This is a terrible idea,” a metallic voice says.

Sighing, Cassian turns and looks down (though not very far) into the glow of an automaton’s eyes. “I heard you the first four times, Kay, so unless you have anything new to contribute, stop harping.”

Kay glares up at him for a long second. “No,” he says. “Nothing new. But it remains a bad idea that’s likely to get you killed.”

“Well, it’s the best one I have,” Cassian retorts, and urges his horse into a walk. “You can help keep me alive by following the plan.” He doesn’t look back at Kay’s huff, no less irritated for being blown through pipes and grates instead of lungs and a mouth, and keeps going. As much as Kay complains, Cassian knows he’ll back him up.

Alone, Cassian rides through the town at a walk, his horse’s hoofbeats echoing off the walls of the vacant homes and shops that only an hour before had been bustling with people. But the emptiness is an illusion; here and there throughout the town, like sounds just at the edge of hearing, Cassian senses the Dead.

One hand on the hilt of his sword, Cassian carefully opens the third pouch on his bandolier, thumb slipping inside the mouth of the ancient bronze bell to keep the clapper still. Once he has it in position, he grasps the handle with his other hand, lets go of the clapper, and rings the Walker. The peals are an irresistible left-right-left-right that pour over the town, commanding all who hear it to march.

The Dead begin to comply. All day Cassian’s been able to feel them lurking in cellars and sheds and other sunless places, waiting for nightfall to emerge. They’ve been doing the same for nearly a week, hiding during the day, walking the streets and draining the Life from the townsfolk during the night.

But tonight, there will be no more victims, no Dead loved ones to torment the living, no more melting back into the safety of darkness. Tonight, the Abhorsen rides through the dark, commanding the Dead out of the town and to their final rest.

Soon Cassian comes to the edge of the town, marked by a modest stone wall with a heavy wooden gate. The gate is open, as he’d instructed, and Cassian rides through it. He stops when there are about fifty yards between himself and the wall, and then he turns, stops, and waits. All the while, he rings Kibeth, forcing the Dead to come forward.

The first ones to arrive are the newest Dead, those whose corpse bodies are the least decayed, merely swaying as they walk. One of them is the young man who asked for Cassian’s help in the first place, and a spike of grief and guilt through his chest threatens to loosen his hold on the Walker.

Shoving the emotions down, Cassian reminds himself that if he does his job right, the boy will be at peace soon.

He keeps ringing the Walker, and more Dead come, forming a shambling circle around him. It takes longer for the oldest Dead to arrive; missing feet or entire legs, they are forced to move at a crawl. When no Dead have joined the group in several minutes, Cassian turns and begins to ride away from the city again. He moves more quickly now, Ahmwin trampling some of the slower-moving corpses, and soon has a good dozen yards between himself and the group. Enough time to put Kibeth away and extract Saraneth. Not so much that the group has the chance to disperse or go back to the town.

Gathering his resolve, Cassian faces down the group of approaching Dead, takes a deep breath, and rings Binder.

The low notes roll over the Dead, and Cassian feels them succumb to him, a wave of obedience spreading outwards. When he sees the last Dead twitching with the enchantment, Cassian stops Saraneth all at once.

Faint sounds of shuffling feet fill the silence, clouded eyes and empty sockets staring back at him. Without a word, Cassian raises an open hand.

Pushing his will forward, he drags his hand down, closing it, and as his fist falls, so do some of the Dead. Cassian does it again, and a few more fall. He banishes roughly half the group this way.

The ones left, sensing the departing spirits of their brethren, writhe in their bonds. Cassian rings Saraneth again. The binding magic settles over the Dead unevenly, and he knows it won’t be very long at all before they break it.

He sends a Charter mark for light into the air above. Before it fades, he sees Kay loping out from the gate.

In the renewed darkness, his horse slowly backs away from the increasingly-agitated Dead, and Cassian raises his hands again, palms facing the enemy, and prepares a spell, the marks bright in his mind’s eye. Marks for purification, for swift travel, for rest.

Marks for fire.

Cassian holds the spell tightly to let its intensity build. Right before he would lose control entirely, he releases the magic.

The air before his hands ignites in a torrent of white-hot flame, burning through the center of the group before Cassian sweeps his hands back and forth to catch all of them. The ones in front die immediately; farther back, they shriek and writhe as they burn. A few on the edges of the group try to run, but Kay is there corralling them, and both man and machine watch as the corpses burn and finally lie quiet. Cassian keeps the fire going until there’s nothing left but ash.

Then, quiet.

In the absence of Cassian’s fire spell, the night feels darker than before, even with the supernatural shine of Kay’s eyes. “Did you see any left in town?”

“None outside,” Kay says. “There are a few who can’t get out of their hiding places. And you should check the townsfolk to be safe.”

Cassian sighs. “I was planning on it.”

He rides back to town, ashes coating his horse’s legs and dusting his boots. He moves methodically, covering every lane and yard, rooting out and burning four more Dead. Then he only has the buildings where the townsfolk are waiting, and he sighs again.

A wrought-iron hand curls around his shoulder, surprisingly warm and comforting. Cassian pats it twice in gratitude.

Screening the townspeople for Mordaut is a necessary, unpleasant business. The incidence of them has grown alarmingly in the last year — _‘five hundred and thirty-six percent’_ , the ghost of Kay's voice helpfully supplies— to the point that he’s begun doing it preemptively.

He hates it every time.

Cassian dismounts, tying Ahmwin to a post. People are packed into every available space in the inn, so much Life so close together that finding one Mordaut will be a matter of getting physically close to every single person. And the creature will probably see him coming, and thus have a chance to escape, or jump from one host to the next, or otherwise evade him. So, one hand on the closed kitchen door, Cassian draws Ranna and prepares his mind. He gives the coded knock and enters when the misplaced stable hand opens it.

In these small hours of the morning, only one oven is hot, ready for the morning’s bread. Balls of dough sit on boards under cheesecloth, and two industrious souls are chopping vegetables. The other people there are all standing or sitting in various states of prayer or catatonic indifference.

Good. That makes things easier.

“Your attention, please,” Cassian says, and he doesn’t need to raise his voice to get it. He waits until the cooks have put down their knives. “Thank you.”

A pure, almost sweet note, reinforced by Cassian’s will, sounds through the room. Everyone but the Abhorsen sinks to the floor in sleep.

Slipping Ranna back into its pouch, Cassian moves through the kitchen. He touches the forehead of each person, checking for corruption, and finds none.

Quietly, he opens the door to the common room, and finds that a few people near the kitchen are sleeping, too. He brings out Ranna again, ringing it twice this time to make sure everyone slumbers, and repeats his actions.

A young woman near the big window has the Mordaut. Cassian pierces the thing with the tip of his spell-enhanced sword, banishes the skittering, gooey thing with Saraneth, and kneels over the former host. There’s enough left of her to recover and continue living, and he sighs in relief before murmuring a minor healing spell.

Alone with just the crackle of the fire and his own weariness, he almost decides the job is done. There’s no record of anyone ever finding two Mordaut in the same place, as they tend to be territorial. The dozens of Dead he's felled tonight are pushing him close to exhaustion, besides. But a subtle twinge in his gut tells him he can’t stop looking yet.

The faint grey of pre-dawn is cutting through the night by the time he finds the other Mordaut. He’s checked everyone in the rest of the inn, the barn, and has started on the stable. When he approaches a man close to his own age lying on straw in a dark corner, the feeling of Death intensifies, and Cassian’s heart sinks. It’s too strong for the host to survive.

SIlently, the Abhorsen draws his sword again, but his presence must alert the Mordaut. The man comes lurching awake, twitchy and sweating, and Cassian must grab his shoulder with one hand.

“Easy,” Cassian murmurs into the host’s ear. Tivik. That was his name. Cassian met him on previous visits to the town. “It’s going to be alright,” he lies.

Tivik stops struggling, and Cassian pushes him face-first to the ground, stabs the Mordaut embedded in his shoulder blade and one arm, and reaches for Saraneth all in one smooth motion. The hissing, screeching Dead claws at his blade as he banishes it, reaching for him until the last.

When it’s gone, there’s still the gaping, rotten wound in Tivik’s back, and the only help Cassian can give him is pushing the sword clean through his heart.

“May your spirit find peace,” he prays.

He drags the body outside and burns it with the proper marks for purification and rest.

“It’s done, Cassian,” Kay says, hand on his shoulder again. “The town is clear.”

Nodding wearily, Cassian finds and wakes the Headwoman, tells her the changes the town must make to help prevent such trouble in the future: routine purification spells. Casting daylight into every cellar. Stricter gate guards.

“We can’t thank you enough, Abhorsen,” the Headwoman says, pressing something into his hands. “It’s so small in comparison to what you’ve done for us, but please, take this. For you and your family.”

Cassian hides his flinch, nods and puts the bundle carefully into his saddlebags. He can get home before dark, and that’s worth traveling as tired as he is. “Thank you, Beru. Farewell.”

It’s not that long of a ride to the river, Ahmwin being quite familiar with the route and eager to return to her own stable and store of sweet apples. Cassian drifts in his own mind, keeping just enough awareness to avoid danger, though he knows Kay is close by, sometimes in sight, sometimes not. Soon he’s back at the riverbank, touching the stone that activates the bridge-sending between shore and island. An arc of Charter marks materializes over the rushing water, and Ahmwin walks calmly across a bridge made of nothing but light.

Later, after he’s brushed and fed and watered Ahmwin, put his armor on the rack, and left his ashy boots by the door, Cassian goes up into the house proper, gift bundle under one arm.

Afternoon light streaming through the windows, the roar of the waterfall muffled by the stone walls of the house, Cassian stands in silence. He places the bundle on a table and unwraps it.

It’s four plush dressing gowns, finely made. Two are child-sized, two for adults. One of each size is a deep blue, a pattern of geometric stars embroidered on the sleeves and neckline in pure white. The other two are emerald green with needlework flowers in every color. The cut and placement of embellishments on all four are alike, an unmistakable set.

For a moment, Cassian imagines what it might be like to have a partner, children. The four of them sitting in their matching robes over breakfast, or reading by the fire in the evening. For a moment he feels himself smiling at those imaginary people, putting his arms around them, a feeling of warmth and comfort and _home_ that he hasn’t had for such a very long time. For a moment, Cassian can barely breathe with how much he wants it.

The dream is so far out of reach that he can’t even picture faces for any of them.

“Ouch,” Kay says from the doorway. Cassian doesn’t know when he appeared but he’s too tired and too used to the automaton’s abrupt comings and goings to jump.

“Yeah,” Cassian agrees, and starts to fold up the robes. “Maybe I can find someone to give them to.”

“Maybe,” Kay says, tone conveying how purely theoretical he thinks even that is. It’s a kindness, nonetheless; Cassian must look utterly miserable for him to be holding back whatever acerbic observations he’s surely made.

Cassian says nothing, just waves a sending over to take the dressing gowns into storage. He doesn’t move from staring at the surface of the table.

The sound of gears and motors approaches, and Kay grasps Cassian by the elbow. “Go to bed, Cassian. You need rest.”

“Yeah,” Cassian says again, and lets himself be led to his bedroom.


	2. Threshold

Raised within sight of the Perimeter that separates Ancelstierre from the Old Kingdom, Bodhi Rook is well aware of the existence of magic. He bears a Charter Mark — more proudly than some that share his patrol — and imagines a day when he’ll be allowed to cross the border into the mysterious land beyond. It is during such a daydream that the winds from that land shift south, the lights along the Wall flickering out in waves as the Old passes over the New. Bodhi stands a bit taller, looking out over the horizon.

Something is coming toward them.

He reaches for the phone line, the lights blinking out at a more rapid pace now. 

It rings twice, followed by a bored voice responding, “Switchboard.”

The sky is getting dark, but only in patches. Almost like it’s chasing something. He swallows and presses the phone to his mouth, harder than necessary. “We need scouts at the Eastern Light. Now.”

The line goes dead. Bodhi has no idea if his message went through. There’s a torch strapped to his belt, but it doesn’t respond when he presses the button. He fumbles open the emergency supplies box, fitted at every post, and breathes out in relief when his hand closes around a candle and a box of matches. There should be a lantern as well, but it's not in its rightful place, borrowed (or lost) and never returned. The marks to cast for light could be at his fingertips in a moment, but using the Charter could draw attention that he’s not prepared to handle on his own. 

The darkness is still moving across the sky, something that can only be seen as a shadow crossing through the light of the moon at the front of the vee of motion. Whatever it is, it’s trying to evade the dark things, which seem less like shadows and more like things created to absorb the light, blurred around the edges. 

Bodhi strikes a match and lights the candle, setting it on the waist high barrier of the walkway that he’s stationed on. The wind is beginning to pick up, blowing his hair back away from his face and tugging tendrils free from the braid he wears it in. He cups his hand around the flame, trying desperately to keep the candle lit. Without it, he will be in the dark, only the waning crescent of the moon left to illuminate the approaching danger. 

There are a standard-issue pistol and sword strapped at his hip, but he reaches for the dagger that he wears tucked into his boot instead. It had belonged to his father before he passed years ago, and it fits solidly against his palm, warm from being pressed against his calf. 

Bodhi looks up, just in time to see something fall out of the sky. Behind him, there are rows of concertina wire and wind flutes, and the carved-out valley that holds them. Holds back the things that might seek entrance into the city. Up here, there is just the Wall and his resolve. He steps toward the barrier, holding up the candle as if the flame will cast it’s meager light down to the ground below. 

“Hello! Is someone there?”

It is perhaps not the best idea, to call out to things that fall from the sky. 

“Yes, please, I need help!”

It is perhaps not the best idea, to rush to the aid of a seemingly kind voice in the darkness. 

Bodhi grips his dagger, turning to see if any reinforcements are approaching. Surely someone other than him has seen the lights go out. Surely there will be reinforcements on their way to defend the Wall. But whether or not they are coming, they are not here now. 

“Please. I need to get a message to the Abhorsen,” the voice calls out. It sounds like a woman, and her voice is strained, as if in pain or, at the very least, distress. Bodhi peers down, but the candle is small and a cloud has passed over the moon. His heart crashes against his ribs. 

He looks back over his shoulder, but still no one approaches. Some memory from childhood blooms in the back of his mind, his mother’s warm hand cupping the back of his neck.  _ ‘Always do what you know in your heart is right, my brave boy.’ _

Bodhi Rook, First Lieutenant of the Northern Perimeter Reconnaissance Unit, reaches into the hidden compartment stitched into his uniform and pulls out the key tucked within. He tucks his dagger through the belt at his waist, picks up the candle, and walks over to a door set in the wall. The key unlocks the door, which leads to a stairway, circling around to another door below. Under his feet, the stones slowly transition from Ancelstierre-made red brick to carefully hewn stone, each piece fit together with precision (and not a small amount of magic). He walks slowly, palm pressed to the curving stone wall, waiting for a voice from his post to call him back. He reaches the bottom in silence, only his own heartbeat pounding in his ears to keep him company. Here the key only works in conjunction with a charter stone set in the wall, the mark on his forehead tingling lightly as he presses his hand against it— like finding like and accepting. 

Tucking the key back into his pocket, Bodhi pulls the dagger from his belt and opens the door. Steps out of Ancelstierre and into the Old Kingdom, though some part of him has known he crossed that barrier the moment the lights flickered out, regardless of the position of the Wall. 

The door clicks shut behind him, the lock resetting. Bodhi sweeps his hand over the surface of the Wall, stopping when he feels the protective spells renew themselves. On this side of the barrier the moon is full overhead, bright enough to see a path winding through a wide field. Pinching the flame of the candle between thumb and forefinger, then dashing the spent wax to one side, Bodhi slips what remains into his pocket for safekeeping.

Suddenly mindful that whoever was calling for aid might have been discovered in the time it took him to descend the stairs, Bodhi steps forward quietly. He can hear someone struggling, a faint voice cursing and, in the distance, something wailing. Moving toward the human-sounding voice, Bodhi leaves the safety of the Wall. 

Up the path some hundred meters is a Paperwing, the nose buried slightly in the ground. Just beyond is a woman, struggling with  _ something _ and calling out Charter marks, aiming them into it at a rapid pace. Bodhi lets out a shout and runs over, his dagger leading the way. 

His dagger goes right through the creature, his arm following. Without anything to stop his forward momentum, Bodhi trips over the woman’s legs, sprawled across the ground. Claws scrape against the heavy wool of his jacket, trying to shred down to his skin. Pushing Bodhi off her legs, the woman stands and, drawing the mark for fire in the air, sends a burst of flame into the creature. 

It wails, an awful sound that sends goosebumps racing across Bodhi’s skin, then rips itself free and attempts to fly away. The woman stumbles forward two steps and falls to her knees. 

Breath knocked out of him, scratched and singed and scared out of his mind, Bodhi Rook scrambles to his feet and over to the woman.

“What in the blazes was that?” he asks, trying to wipe his blade clean on his slacks.

“A Hand of the Dead,” she says, voice strained. She falls back onto her heels, the same black substance that won’t scrub off his blade staining the front of her dress. Along with a not-insignificant amount of blood —  her own, judging by the way she’s pressing her hand against her side. 

“We need to get you to a doctor,” Bodhi says, reaching for her arm. 

“There’s no time. My journey was to make it this far. The rest is yours.” 

Ignoring her, Bodhi goes down on one knee to wrap his arm around her waist, intending to help the woman stand. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, but there’s still a chance—”

“You must listen! I need to get a message to the Abhorsen. I came here for the messenger.”

Bodhi struggles to lift her, their weight evenly matched. “We can find your messenger after! Please, if you can stand just a little I’ll help you walk.”

She reaches up, touching two fingers against the Charter Mark on Bodhi’s forehead. “No, you don’t understand.  _ You _ are the messenger. Please, there’s a scroll in my Paperwing, I need you to deliver it to the Abhorsen. He must know what’s happening.”

Bodhi has had his Mark checked before, daily in fact, to ensure that he hasn’t been compromised at his remote post. This is something completely different, a sense of her connection to the Charter flowing through his mind, when the opposite should be happening. She’s weak, that much he can see with his own eyes, but underneath that he can feel the crackle of Free Magic, something  _ wrong  _ creeping into her body, probably from the creature that injured her in the first place. 

She won’t survive, but she might come back. 

Bodhi gasps, slowly lowering her back to the ground. “I — I don’t even know where to find him. How am I supposed to get there?”

Slumping back onto the ground, she tilts her head toward the downed craft. Bodhi climbs to his feet and walks over, running his hand over the laminated hull. He’s never been this close to one, though he saw one in the sky before, half a lifetime ago. It’s nothing like the aeroplanes he’s flown in since, all creaking wood and canvas, bound together with cabling and some engineer's wild dream, riotous propeller deafening him with its perpetual hum. This is sleek and smooth and made to be in the air, and he desperately wants to be up there with it, instead of on the ground with a dying woman, something terrible drawing near.

Under his hand it —  _ she  _ — begins to shift, somehow straightening and smoothing away any damage from the crash. It feels like a shiver under his palm, strange but pleasant.

The woman lets out a small laugh, which quickly turns into a cough. “I knew— I knew she would like you.”

Reaching inside the craft, Bodhi finds a satchel, the strap tied to a post set against the inside of the hull. He opens it and pulls out a scroll, holding it up for the woman to see.

“Yes, that’s it. You must go quickly, they’ll be returning soon. You should get as much of a head start as you can.”

“I still don’t know where to go, and who are you? Will the Abhorsen be looking for you?”

She coughs again, a wet sound that makes Bodhi cringe. “She knows the way. You have to whistle, like—” She purses her lips, a clear note ringing out. The Paperwing rustles, like the breeze has picked up. 

Bodhi makes an attempt, his own note wavering. He’s shaking, he’s just now realized. Licking his lips, he tries again. 

“That will have to be enough. Go, now.”

She doesn’t need to say it. He can hear them now, like a great flapping in the distance, and coming closer. Tucking the scroll through his belt alongside his dagger, Bodhi swings his leg over the side of the Paperwing and climbs inside. 

_ Here goes nothing. _ He whistles, and somehow, the wind answers.


	3. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Bor Gullet but a zombie, temporary character death.

In the last hour before dawn, Cassian is awake, bending over a map in his study. He doesn’t notice the hour, the Charter marks in the ceiling giving ample light.

He spends a lot of his time working at night, anyway.

With a steady hand he notes locations on the map in white chalk. The X’s he’s drawn are all over the Old Kingdom, from the Wall to Navis.

He pauses, lips pursed, and reaches for red chalk. The marks he makes this time are no less exact, but come more slowly.

A mechanical footfall sounds on the stairs below. When Kay enters the room, Cassian doesn’t bother looking up before speaking.

“If you only consider the incidents with Greater Dead or more than two dozen Lesser Dead,” he says, pointing to the map, “The area covered is much smaller.”

Kay stands over the table and looks. “Yes,” he agrees. “The area near and easily accessible from the Red Lake.”

“Exactly.” Cassian nods. He finally looks up at his friend. “We should go check it out as soon as we can. I’ll be rested enough to travel in another couple of days.”

Instead of the expected protest or gloomy prediction of failure, Kay merely shakes his head and points out the window. “You’re going to be busy with that.”

Frowning, Cassian turns. It’s still much darker outside than the study, so he banishes the Charter-light, and wonders again at just what Kay can see and why.

Once his eyes re-adjust, in the faint light of pre-dawn Cassian can make it out too: the shape of a bird, but too smooth, with fixed wings. A cloud of tiny dark shapes writhe around it, diving at it again and again.

“A Paperwing?” Cassian questions, but it can’t be anything else.

“Yes, and headed this way. I estimate a sixty-three percent chance those are Gore Crows as well.”

Cassian curses, calls up the lights again, and makes for his armor downstairs.

* * *

They aren’t Gore Crows. They’re Dead Hands in the corpses of ravens and thus bigger, smarter, sharper. Riding hard across the plateau of the southern riverbank, Cassian watches them attack the Paperwing, unable to do anything but prepare to heal the pilot and fend off whatever Dead meet them on the ground.

And there will be something more than the Hands. Cassian feels a larger presence moving towards them like the discordant scrape of a half-heard noise. Something he hasn’t faced before. He hopes that what he knows is enough to defeat it and wishes, for the thousandth time, that he’d had something more than a book to teach him his craft.

Checking his bandolier again, Cassian urges Ahmwin faster, trying to predict where the Paperwing will fall. The wings are tattered by this time, the wind erratic, and he doesn’t expect it to stay in the air much longer.

The jangle of the Greater Dead thing grows louder in Cassian’s senses, and then in the fading starlight he sees a huge dark shape emerge from the trees, stalking the Paperwing from the other side. It’s low to the ground and has a mass of writhing arms that wrap around branches and saplings to pull it forward faster. It really shouldn’t be able to move that fast.

There’s a loud crack as the Paperwing shears a wing off against a tree, but the main body remains whole as it crashes to earth. To Cassian’s surprise and relief, a moment later a human figure emerges from the wreck, unsteady on its feet but still able to run. The relief turns to dismay as Cassian realizes that the Greater Dead creature will reach the pilot first.

Ahmwin is in a full gallop when the pilot’s scream pierces the pre-dawn. Cursing, drawing his sword, Cassian shifts in the saddle, ready to strike. The thing has its many arms around the struggling pilot. At least the monster will have its attention split when Cassian reaches it.

Some part of him hates that this is his first thought.

Charter marks rippling over his blade, Cassian stands in the stirrups and deals a heavy swing to the Dead’s body. It gives an unnatural, bone-jarring roar, and he feels a few limbs give way under the strike as he gallops past, then wheels Ahmwin around to return and finish the job.

All but two limbs have released the pilot, who now hangs still in the monster’s grasp. The man’s spirit is still in Life, but barely. Cassian decides that getting him free of the creature is his first priority, and rides forward to hack at the last two tentacles.

The creature screams again, the sound an assault on Cassian’s mind, but he holds fast and cuts through a tentacle. The thing tries to wrap arms around him, but the Charter spell of shielding that Cassian placed on himself as he left his house makes the creature’s limbs glance off of his wards in a shower of sparks. Cassian lunges forward again, severing the final connection to the pilot. The ember of Life flickers in the unconscious form, weak and unlikely to sustain itself for very long.

Now separated from the pilot, the Dead attacks Cassian in earnest, heaving itself up and throwing itself at him. The tentacles are wrapped around his wards, now, the sparks of resistance not deterring the monster. The Abhorsen is caught, sword trapped against his leg, Ahmwin thrashing as the touch of the Dead begins to drain her of Life. All the while a slavering mouth with too many teeth screams inches from Cassian’s face, the Charter marks of the wards flickering out one by one as the shield is corroded by Free Magic.

Gritting his teeth, Cassian prepares a spell split between his hands. When it’s ready he releases the marks, and fire erupts from his blade and free hand, burning into the monster’s body and mouth. It screams and hastily releases Cassian, but not before he drives his flaming sword into the thing’s body.

It is still writhing and thrashing as Cassian brings out Saraneth and banishes it back to Death. The monster’s physical form begins to disintegrate immediately into a puddle of ichor and rotting flesh.

Cassian dismounts, glancing over Ahmwin to find her weakened but whole, and turns to the pilot just in time to feel his spirit slip free.

Cursing, Cassian plants himself on clean ground, casting a protection diamond, and steps into Death.

The river is cold and grey as always, pulling at his ankles, but Cassian gives it only as much mind as he needs to stay standing. He turns around, looking and listening, feeling for the pilot’s spirit. Sensing nothing, he moves quickly toward the first Gate. With as much Life as the monster had taken from the man, he was probably too weak to fight the current and had most likely been swept away, getting closer and closer to the point of no return.

Cassian makes it past the waterfall, the whirlpool, the curtain of mist, the second waterfall, all without finding the pilot. He’s beginning to despair when, very close to the Dark Bridge, he sees the shape of a man floating face-up, drifting towards the Fifth Gate.

Kay would tell him the risk was too great, but Cassian feels an urgency he can’t explain, a bone-deep knowledge that the man is important driving him forward. When he’s as close as he can get on foot, he puts spells of strength and buoyancy and protection from transmutation on himself. Then he jumps and dismisses the bridge.

The cold tries to steal his breath but he doesn’t let it. He reaches the man quickly enough, grabs him with one arm around the chest, and then starts the hard part.

He swims at an angle to the current, but it’s still difficult, even magically enhanced as he is. The man wakes while he’s still pulling them back, a half-voiced moan of terror in his throat. His panicked thrashing is weak but still interferes with Cassian’s swimming.

“I’ve got you,” Cassian says, though he can barely spare the breath. “We’re almost to the bridge. Almost there.”

The pilot stops struggling and loses consciousness again. Cassian keeps swimming.

It feels like a long time passes before he’s at the right place to call up the bridge again, and then he has to change the spell, placing the bridge directly on the surface of the water. He hauls himself up first, then drags the man after.

Not giving himself time to catch his breath, he raises the bridge as much as he dares, marvelling that no Dead things attacked them while they were in the water, hoping that his luck holds as he redoubles his strength spell and carries the pilot.

He has to scare away some Lesser Dead in the Fourth Precinct, but they make it back to the First unattacked. Still carrying the pilot, Cassian steps back into Life.

When he opens his eyes, he’s still standing in his protection diamond, frost cracking over his skin when he moves. The pilot is on the ground where he’d fallen earlier, but his chest is rising and falling, his spirit firmly in his body.

The first rays of sun touch the treetops nearby, and Cassian lets out a long breath.

“That’s a lot of enhancement spells.” Kay is holding Ahmwin’s bridle. “You’re going to feel that very soon.”

“Had to bring him back.” Cassian walks over to the pilot. “Found him in the Fifth. Couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

Kay makes an alarmed noise and steps closer, peering intently down at Cassian. “Hm,” he says after a moment. “Your protection spells appear to have worked. You really oughtn’t do that again.”

“Not planning to.” Cassian kneels over the man he rescued. He’s a Perimeter Scout, from the uniform and the Charter Mark on his forehead.

Cassian frowns. The man’s Mark is broken, by either the creature or his stint in Death. Closing his eyes, the Abhorsen rests his fingertips on the Mark, trying to feel the shape of the damage. He can sense the ragged edges of it, the places where it twists like warped metal. He checks for corruption, too, the acrid burn of Free Magic or the seeping cold of Death. He finds neither.

He should have. That far into Death, that much of himself stolen by the Greater Dead monster Cassian still didn't have a name for, and the pilot should have been barely human.

But here he lies, wounded and weak, yes, but still entirely himself. Cassian checks again, to be sure he hasn't missed something, and then a third time, but the searches reveal nothing new. There is only the broken Charter Mark cutting into the man’s mind.

Cassian’s disbelief is washed away by despair. Even with the pilot's condition being much better than it should, the Mark is still beyond the Abhorsen’s skills to mend.

Swallowing the feeling down, he wraps a protection spell around the broken Mark, shielding the pilot from the worst effects. A healing spell begins to repair his mind, and that’s all that Cassian can do.

His work done, for a moment Cassian sees the pilot as an individual. He brushes strands of dark hair from the man’s face, struck by the curve of his mouth and the arches of his cheekbones, and finds himself wondering what he looks like when he smiles. The color of his eyes. The sound of his voice when he’s not scared out of his mind.

Shaking himself, Cassian starts checking the scout for physical injury. Daydreams won’t help anyone — he shouldn't even be thinking about befriending him.

If it turns out the pilot’s carrying a slow-acting corruption yet too subtle to perceive, Cassian has to be prepared to put him back where he found him.

The examination doesn't reveal any broken bones or open wounds deeper than a scratch. His strength spell is still working, so he picks up the pilot as gently as he can.

Kay makes an exasperated noise. “You’re being ridiculous. I’ll take him. You and the horse are liable to fall over any second now.”

Cassian doesn’t protest, just makes sure that the man is positioned as comfortably as possible in the automaton’s arms, and mounts Ahmwin.

The strength spell lasts the longest, though even it wears off when the sun has risen its own height over the horizon, just before they reach the riverbank opposite the house. Cassian sags in his saddle as they cross the charter-bridge. When Ahmwin stops in the stable, Cassian slides off with only slightly more grace than a sack of potatoes and stumbles through taking care of the mare. She’s slow-moving herself, and Cassian isn’t surprised when she settles to the ground and goes to sleep immediately after being brushed.

Trudging up the stairs, Cassian hears the sounds of the bath running in his room. A sending urges him towards the door, but Cassian shakes his head. “None of the other rooms are ready, and he needs the bed more than I do. I’ll sleep in the study.”

The Charter-mark hands twist around themselves, but the sending nods in acquiescence. Cassian is glad that Kay and the magical servants are there to take care of the pilot. It saves the man’s dignity and keeps Cassian’s nose from being rubbed in his own solitude.

Almost as soon as Cassian has shuttered the windows in the study, sendings appear with extra blankets and his sleep clothes.

As he lets himself sink into sleep, Cassian wonders why the Dead were chasing the Paperwing, why a Perimeter Scout was flying one in the first place, and how the Greater Dead thing had managed to enter Life.

* * *

In his dream, Cassian has his arm around the pilot again, but this time they’re both reclining on the couch, the man leaning back against Cassian’s chest. Their fingers are laced together. Cassian leans down to kiss the man’s neck, and the man sighs happily and squeezes Cassian’s hand.

Neither of them say anything, but they don’t need to. His partner’s soft breathing is enough for Cassian.

* * *

Once the pilot is clean and bundled into Cassian’s bed, Kay goes up to the study to check on Cassian. He is also asleep, curled up on the sofa, a throw pillow clutched to his chest. There are tears on his face, an all-too-common occurrence that Kay has typically refrained from mentioning, but, oddly, Cassian is smiling, too.

Interesting. He gives it an eighty-one percent chance of being related to the pilot.


	4. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Zombie birbs, uncanny monsters, temporary character death, PTSD flashback.

Bodhi Rook has wanted to fly a Paperwing since he was five years old. 

He wasn’t expecting that to come hand in hand with a flock of —  _ whatever those are —  _ intending to pull him from the sky. All dreams have their downside, he supposes. At the very least, he’d thought he would have more time.

Despite his surely abysmal whistling, the Paperwing cuts through the air smoothly. It lends him a confidence that lasts only long enough for the shadow that he saw in the air from his post to reassert itself. She had called it a Hand of the Dead, but in the moonlight Bodhi can only reconcile them with ravens. Dead ravens, at that. That’s one thing he hadn’t expected to be a hazard in the air.

He’s pretty sure they’re dead, even though they’re flying. Because of the stench, for one, and because of the way bits of them are breaking off and falling to earth as they harry the Paperwing. Dead  _ anything _ moving on their own shouldn’t be possible, but there they are. Soon they’ve torn up the wings enough to send Bodhi into a barely-controlled fall, and it’s only through long experience and a bit of luck that he survives the landing.

He spares a few seconds feeling some sort of sorrow for the craft, which had carried him this distance only to be destroyed.  Then he climbs out of the wreckage and starts running, because some huge, dark thing has lumbered out of the underbrush to pursue him. He doesn’t know what it is, only that it has an excess of sickeningly flexible limbs.

It catches him and entangles him in its writhing mass, and when two of the multitude of tendrils touch his temples, it feels like his mind is being split open. Thankfully, he blacks out.

* * *

He fades into consciousness to discover that the monster is gone and he’s surrounded by rushing water. A strong arm is wrapped around his chest, and whoever has him is pulling him somewhere.

“We’re almost to the bridge,” a low, accented voice rumbles near Bodhi’s ear. “Almost there.”

Fingers tightening on his rescuer’s arm, Bodhi loses consciousness again.

* * *

Bodhi, much to his surprise, wakes up alive. Alive and comfortable, more to the point, which makes no sense at all. He should be wet, or in pain, or both, but instead he’s in a soft bed under a coverlet and...silk sheets? He’s wearing someone else’s clothes, too, and he’s clean.

He pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders. It’s a deep sapphire with a pattern of silver keys, and quite well-made if showing signs of age. Bodhi wonders who pulled it over him. Did he invent the man pulling him from the dark water? Or did he imagine the water in the first place? The monster? The Paperwing had been real, he knows that much.

Concentrating, he listens, but hears no voices, no sounds of activity in the next room or the next or even in a garden or courtyard. There’s a well-muffled roar of falling water, his own breathing, and no other sounds. Dust motes drift in the few beams of afternoon sunshine to find their way through heavy curtains. In the slices of light, Bodhi sees richly polished wood floors, stacks of books lying everywhere.There’s a very strange suit of armor in the corner, a wardrobe, a claw-footed tub in a tiled corner, and painted silver stars on the ceiling. It's been a long time since Bodhi’s felt such solitude.

He looks around the room, trying to figure out where he is. Its age and style makes him think of the old library he visited in Corvere, but it's obviously someone’s bedroom. He starts wondering if he should get up and go looking for food and water, or maybe just leave. Better rude than dead.

“Oh, you’re awake,” says a strange voice behind him, and Bodhi nearly falls over in his startlement. Then he has to wonder if he's dreaming, because the figure in the corner isn't armor, but rather a towering, iron-black automaton with eyes glowing like Edison lamps.

“Is your mind damaged?” the creature asks curiously.

Bodhi swallows. “I don’t think so…”

“Are you sure?” the automaton continues, examining Bodhi critically. “Hearing any voices? Feeling any strange compulsions? Seeing things that aren’t there?  _ Show me _ ,” he says, and the last words resonate powerfully in Bodhi’s head.

_ The thing slithers its horrible limbs up Bodhi’s body. He claws at the tentacles, breathing heavily, desperate to escape. _

He comes back to himself with his back against the far wall, the blanket tangled on the floor.

“I thought so,” the automaton concludes. “Hardly anyone makes it back from the Fifth Precinct at all. You were there too long not to be changed. I wouldn’t worry too much,” he continues. “Humans are surprisingly resilient.”

Bodhi stares, heart slowing from panicked to merely frightened. He has too many questions to even begin to ask them all, so he picks one at random and starts trying to look for an escape route without looking like he’s looking.

“The Fifth Precinct of what?”

The automaton regards him with his clockwork calm. “Death.”

A chill runs over Bodhi. Is he really alive? Or is this another precinct of the underworld? If it is, he could do worse.

He swallows. “Where is this place?”

“This,” comes another voice— human, accented, familiar— “is my house.”

Bodhi’s rescuer appears in a doorway, a barefoot man with slightly mussed dark hair falling around his face, his loose clothes wrinkled from sleep. Bodhi tries very hard not to want him and fails miserably.

Maybe it's simply that he's handsome, but maybe it’s because his softness is at odds with the gravity in his gaze; a kind person who’s seen too much.

“You’ve met Kay, it seems,” the man says wryly, coming closer. “Apologies for whatever he did to spook you.”

“I only made him show how he’d changed,” the automaton protests. “You needed to know.”

The man sighs and extends a hand. Bodhi takes it, unable not to notice its deft strength.

“My name is Cassian Andor. I’m the Abhorsen.”

Suddenly-renewed hope floods Bodhi’s ability to speak. “Bodhi Rook,” he manages, smiling and gripping the Abhorsen’s hand. “I’m the pilot. I brought the message.”

Bodhi’s face falls, eyes going wide. “The message. Where are my clothes? My dagger? Please, tell me they weren’t lost!”

Cassian steps closer, bringing his other hand up to grip Bodhi’s arm reassuringly. “The sendings will have your things, I’m sure. What was the message about?”

Casting his eyes around the room frantically, Bodhi pulls away from Cassian’s grip, the blanket pooling to the floor at his feet. “I — I don’t know. I didn’t read it. The woman said it was important...that I needed to find — to find  _ you _ and there were these — these creatures chasing me, and then that  _ thing _ was there. I just — please, I don’t know what sendings are, but I need my uniform back, oh gods they’re going to think I deserted my post, I’m going to get court-martialed. What have I done?”

His hands have come up to cover his face. Bodhi’s not sure if he’s trying to hide or if he’s trying to wake himself up from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in. Then there’s a warm weight being draped over his shoulders, his resolve reasserting itself under the gentle reassurance of reality. 

He opens his eyes.

The person standing in front of him appears to be real, for a moment. Then they turn and becomes something extraordinary, composed of what must be thousands of Charter marks bound together and shaped into the form of a small human. Bodhi touches the material covering his arms, emerald green with a brocade of flowers. Swallowing heavily, he chokes out, “Thank you.”

The automaton — Kay — makes a strange noise, almost a scoff. Bodhi’s forehead furrows and he looks around to see that he's being watched carefully with ever-glowing eyes. “What?”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone thank a sending before. You are an intriguing human, Bodhi Rook.”

Beside him, Cassian smiles faintly, his eyes darting down to what Bodhi now realizes is a robe. A look of distress, or, perhaps, longing settles on his face for a moment, disappearing with a shake of his head and a straightening of his shoulders. Bodhi begins to shrug the fabric off. “If this belongs to someone, please, I don’t want to intrude…”

Cassian cuts him off, holding up a hand. His fingers are well-formed, sturdy and straight and purposeful. Bodhi makes himself look away, hoping he hasn’t begun to flush from the improper thoughts running through his mind. This is hardly the time for such things.

“No, no, please keep it. It suits you.” Cassian pauses to rub at the back of his neck, looking away. Kay just looks exasperated, a mighty feat with no apparent change to his face. Clearing his throat, Cassian continues, “The sendings serve the house, but they are generally deliberate with their gifts. I’ve found it’s better not to question them.”

The creature, the  _ sending _ , wanders off for a moment, reappearing with an armful of things, which they place on the bed. Bodhi’s uniform, apparently cleaned and neatly folded. The scroll laid across the top of the bundle. His dagger, encased in an embossed leather sheath that he doesn’t recognize. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” he says, stepping forward. He hesitates over the dagger, wanting it’s presence but having nowhere to put it in his borrowed things. Bodhi picks up the scroll again, turning toward Cassian and holding it out.

“Your message, Abhorsen.”


End file.
